Other People's Money by Emile Gaboriau (ebook smartphone txt) 📕

a moment in that young lady’s virtue.  What would he not have given to be able to question her?  But he dared not.  Often he would gather up his courage, and wait for her on the stairs; but, as soon as she fixed upon him her great black eye, all the phrases he had prepared took flight from his brain, his tongue clove to his mouth, and he could barely succeed in stammering out a timid,

“Good-morning, mademoiselle.”

He felt so angry with himself, that he was almost on the point of leaving the Hotel des Folies, when one evening: 

“Well,” said Mme. Fortin to him, “all is made up again, it seems.  The beautiful carriage called again to-day.”

Maxence could have beaten her.

“What good would it do you,” he replied, “if Lucienne were to turn out badly?”

“It’s always a pleasure,” she grumbled, “to have one more woman to torment the men.  Those are the girls, you see, who avenge us poor honest women!”

The sequel seemed at first to justify her worst previsions.  Three times during that week, Mlle. Lucienne rode out in grand style; but as she always returned, and always resumed her eternal black woolen dress,

“I can’t make head or tail of it,” thought Maxence.  “But never mind, I’ll clear the matter up yet.”

He applied, and obtained leave of absence; and from the very next day he took up a position behind the window of the adjoining Café.  On the first day he lost his time; but on the second day, at about three o’clock, the famous equipage made its appearance; and, a few moments later, Mlle. Lucienne took a seat in it.  Her toilet was richer, and more showy still, than the first time.  Maxence jumped into a cab.

“You see that carriage,” he said to the coachman, “Wherever it goes, you must follow it.  I give ten francs extra pay.”

“All right!” replied the driver, whipping up his horses.

And much need he had, too, of whipping them; for the carriage that carried off Mlle. Lucienne started at full trot down the Boulevards, to the Madeleine, then along the Rue Royale, and through the Place de la Concorde, to the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, where the horses were brought down to a walk.  It was the end of September, and one of those lovely autumnal days which are a last smile of the blue sky and the last caress of the sun.

There were races in the Bois de Boulogne; and the equipages were five and six abreast on the avenue.  The side-alleys were crowded with idlers.  Maxence, from the inside of his cab, never lost sight of Mlle. Lucienne.

She was evidently creating a sensation.  The men stopped to look at her with gaping admiration:  the women leaned out of their carriages to see her better.

“Where can she be going?”  Maxence wondered.

She was going to the Bois; and soon her carriage joined the interminable line of equipages which were following the grand drive at a walk.  It became easier now to follow on foot.  Maxence sent off his cab to wait for him at a particular spot, and took the pedestrians’ road, that follows the edge of the lakes.  He had not gone fifty steps, however, before he heard some one call him.  He turned around, and, within two lengths of his cane, saw M. Saint Pavin and M. Costeclar.  Maxence hardly knew M. Saint Pavin, whom he had only seen two or three times in the Rue St. Gilles, and execrated M. Costeclar.  Still he advanced towards them.

Mlle. Lucienne’s carriage was now caught in the file; and he was sure of joining it whenever he thought proper.

“It is a miracle to see you here, my dear Maxence!” exclaimed M. Costeclar, loud enough to attract the attention of several persons.

To occupy the attention of others, anyhow and at any cost, was M. Costeclar’s leading object in life.  That was evident from the style of his dress, the shape of his hat, the bright stripes of his shirt, his ridiculous shirt-collar, his cuffs, his boots, his gloves, his cane, every thing, in fact.

“If you see us on foot,” he added, “it is because we wanted to walk a little.  The doctor’s prescription, my dear.  My carriage is yonder, behind those trees.  Do you recognize my dapple-grays?”  And he extended his cane in that direction, as if he were addressing himself, not to Maxence alone, but to all those who were passing by.

“Very well, very well! everybody knows you have a carriage,” interrupted M. Saint Pavin.

The editor of “The Financial Pilot” was the living contrast of his companion.  More slovenly still than M. Costeclar was careful of his dress, he exhibited cynically a loose cravat rolled over a shirt worn two or three days, a coat white with lint and plush, muddy boots, though it had not rained for a week, and large red hands, surprisingly filthy.

He was but the more proud; and he wore, cocked up to one side, a hat that had not known a brush since the day it had left the hatter’s.

“That fellow Costeclar,” he went on, “he won’t believe that there are in France a number of people who live and die without ever having owned a horse or a coupe; which is a fact, nevertheless.  Those fellows who were born with fifty or sixty thousand francs’ income in their baby-clothes are all alike.”

The unpleasant intention was evident; but M. Costeclar was not the man to get angry for such a trifle.

“You are in bad humor to-day, old fellow,” he said.  The editor of “The Financial Pilot” made a threatening gesture.

“Well, yes,” he answered, “I am in bad humor, like a man who for ten years past has been beating the drum in front of your d—d financial shops, and who does not pay expenses.  Yes, for ten years I have shouted myself hoarse for your benefit:  ‘Walk in, ladies and gentlemen, and, for every twenty-cent-piece you deposit with us, we will return you a five-franc-piece.  Walk in, follow the crowd, step up to the office:  this is the time.’  They go in.  You receive mountains of twenty-cent-pieces:  you never return anything, neither a five-franc-piece, nor even a centime.  The trick is done, the public is sold.  You drive your own carriage; you suspend diamonds to your mistress’ ears; and I, the organizer of success, whose puffs open the tightest closed pockets, and start up the old louis from the bottom of the old woolen stocking,—I am driven to have my boots half-soled.  You stint me my existence; you kick as soon as I ask you to pay for the big drums bursted in your behalf.”

He spoke so loud, that three or four idlers had stopped.  Without being very shrewd, Maxence understood readily that he had happened in the midst of an acrimonious discussion.  Closely pressed, and desirous of gaining time, M. Costeclar had called him in the hopes of effecting a diversion.

Bowing, therefore, politely,

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said:  “I fear I have interrupted you.”